


All Persons, Living and Dead, Are Purely Coincidental

by DanielleItLouderNow



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 22:40:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20628710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DanielleItLouderNow/pseuds/DanielleItLouderNow
Summary: It's a ritual you've begun, but it's particularly special today





	All Persons, Living and Dead, Are Purely Coincidental

> _ "I was a victim of a series of accidents, as are we all." _
> 
> __\--_ _ _Kurt Vonnegut_
> 
> * * *

You sit back into the couch, feet curled beneath you and a blanket draped across your knees, enjoying the exquisite burn of the scotch with each delicate sip; it contrasted so beautifully with the perfect chill effusing from the stone resting in the center of a clear-cut, crystal tumbler. You'd learned long ago that scotch was better '_on the rocks_,' but held little desire to dilute the experience with ice. You held a certain fondness for the way condensation would form and refract on the glass, scattering rainbows through the slightly viscous amber liquor, but _that_ was where it ended.

Particularly on days like today where you chose to sit holding your scotch in one hand, your favorite copy of Vonnegut spread across your lap, the scent of the scotch mixing perfectly with the heady scent that can only be elicited from turning the pages of a well loved, well aged, leather bound, ink printed, paper paged book. There is absolutely no desire to smudge, dull, or otherwise mar the otherwise perfect sensation of turning the pages, the texture of your soft fingertips creating another exquisite blend of contrast against the slightly roughened edges of paper, the sound awakening something inside you you had long feared was forgotten.

_Your_ _scotch_, very much **_hers_**, was Highland Park Valkyrie. While certain acquaintances of yours would scoff at the idea you are drinking such a scotch, you neither care nor desire to change your habits or tastes.

Especially today.

Contrary to what some believed, you weren't taught to drink scotch by your father, nor by one David Rossi, but rather, by _her_, take that as you will.

It's the lingering hints of vanilla and dark chocolate gliding along your tongue followed by warm spicey smoke that takes you back to simpler times.

* * *

_"Here," she says, "drink this."_

_You eye the glass skeptically, its color both intriguing and volatile as the liquid settles over two perfectly square ice cubes. You watch as a drop lazily glides down the side, leaving a cool trail in its wake until its descent is interrupted by her long, slender fingers._

_You try to swallow but find your throat suddenly too dry, its walls working fruitlessly agaisnt the sudden lack of moisture._

_You snag the glass, innocently brushing her fingers in the process and doing your best to ignore the spark that ignites your heart, only slightly jumping at the intensity of her gaze._

_Gratefully, you take a giant gulp of the cool liquid and immediately begin to sputter, gasping as she tries valiantly to not laugh._

_"Wha-what the hell!" You try for indignant, but it comes out as rather embarrassing whine. Now she does laugh._

_"It's scotch!" She says by way of explanation. "It's not meant to be drank quickly," she says, reaching out and grasping your hand around the glass. "It is meant," she says, slowly, oh so slowly, as she moves closer to you and you find you are trapped with no desire to escape, "to be savored, much like you would a lover, taking your time to explore _**all** _there is to be had."_

_She's now pressed up against you, her hand on your neck and you tilt, giving her access, your lips parted as a small moan escapes._

_"Like you would the first drag of a French cigarette," she continues, her hand having reached your face, her thumb tracing your lips._

_"Like the first kiss between new lovers," you offer, the words escaping before you can regret them and you find that neither of you are talking about scotch anymore._

_Your hand reaches out blindly, fisting in the collar of her shirt, the buttons undone just to the point of impropriety, unprofessional, and you realize it's driven you mad all day, been a test of your patience catching glances of that smooth, creamy skin your fingers are now caressing as you pull her closer._

_But in the end, she's the one who closes the distance, having read your desire before you could even register it yourself, but only because it had burning in her for months._

_And if you were unprepared for how your body reacted simply by brushing her fingers, you are entirely unprepared for the softness of her lips, the restrained passion you felt burning in the controlled way she refused to deepen the kiss, but nipped at your lip when she pulled away, promising the wait until privacy could be achieved would be well worth it._

_It was that day you realize what had been blatantly staring you in the face since day one: that you were completely and irrevocably in love with her and you would spend every one of your last days, happy in the knowledge that she felt the same way._

* * *

You look up to find you are no longer alone, cursing yourself for having forgotten this was a possibility. The book has long since been forgotten, the scotch has grown warm, and you find yourself unwilling to meet the gaze of the woman standing before you.

Not just _unwilling_ but also _unable_ as your vision has begun to blur with unshed tears.

"Oh Jayje," she breathes, "she's gone, honey."

A blatant lie, but you nod your head anyway, forcing yourself to meet Penelope's eyes before burying yourself further into _her_ couch and sobbing, wrapping _her_ blanket tighter around you, taking deep, racking breaths to surround yourself as much as possible with one _Emily Prentiss_, because at this moment she's so far away that she might as well be dead and is as far as everyone else is concerned.

It's a secret you fear will eat you alive, and maybe it already has, but it's one you tell yourself will end one day.

And as if it's fate, kismet, divine intervention, Penelope turns to leave you in peace, to grieve, she assumes, and you are blissfully alone when the sun sinks behind that glorious view from Emily's apartment, when the phone rings.

You don't speak when you pick it up. Instead, you simply wait, holding your breath to find out if _this_ is what you've been waiting for.

"_Jennifer_," she says, your name like a prayer.

You let out a choked sob in response and you can hear she's crying too, her response strangled.

"_I miss you,_" she says, and still, you can't find your voice so you only exhale harshly in response. "_Oh Jennifer, dear, I love you,_"

"I love you, too," you say, "happy birthday," and with that your heart begins to beat again.

**Author's Note:**

> I was literally sitting on my couch this morning, reading Hocus Pocus and drinking scotch at 10 a.m. (because what else does one do as an adult with a weekday off but do something so ridiculously pretentious) when this story popped into my head and begged to be written.  
I'm almost sorry for how I did it, but I'm also really not.  
Forgive me, I'm rewatching Criminal Minds right now but have not even hit season three and I honestly have not watched season six for at least five, maybe six years. I apologize if this fic isn't feasible given time lines.  
But, I will ship JEmily until I die, especially having found out Emily was supposed to be a lesbian anyway, Paget was all about it, and CBS chickened out.  
That's neither here nor there.  
Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it, let me know what you think, and cheers, yeah?  
Dani


End file.
